


It Takes Two

by violent_ends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Bickering, Brotherly Angst, Devil Face (Lucifer TV), Ella Lopez & Lucifer Morningstar Friendship, Episode s05e08: Spoiler Alert, Fuck You Pete, Gen, Lucifer (TV) Season/Series 05 Part 1, Mentioned violence, POV Michael, Protective Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), What-If, the dumbass twins are on a mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violent_ends/pseuds/violent_ends
Summary: Michael and Lucifer put aside their differences and team up for one purpose and one purpose only: punishing Pete for what he did to Ella. Little does Pete know, but the Archangel is so much worse than the Devil...
Relationships: Ella Lopez & Lucifer Morningstar, Michael & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 324





	It Takes Two

**Author's Note:**

> This wish-fulfillment fic is the result of me going "But will he _really_?" when in 5x08 Ella tells Pete he will burn in Hell, so here is me making sure of it. Inspired by a prompt (used for summary) by DifferenceEngineGirl.

“Wakey-wakey, Mikey-Mike!” Lucifer’s obnoxiously high-pitched voice startles Michael from his unconscious state, fingers snapping in front of his face where he’s slumped against one of the (most probably fake) ancient walls of the Devil’s ridiculously luxurious penthouse. Blinking sluggishly, he tries to move, but immediately realizes he’s restrained, his arms forced to stay attached to his sides.

Demon chains. Of course. For once, his twin was smart and probably flew to Hell right after his surprise attack in the cave, when he hid in a corner and unexpectedly hit Michael on the head after rescuing his precious _Detective_. And now, what? He’s keeping him as his little pet? Just because another of Michael’s plans went wrong doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a backup one. He _always_ does.

“What the hell do you want?” he snaps at his brother, who is towering over his sitting figure with a half-empty tumbler in his hand. The _bloody peacock_.

“Interesting choice of words, brother,” Lucifer replies, then takes a small sip, watching him like one looks at a bug before crushing it under the sole of their shoe. “Indeed, yes, this _is_ about Hell.”

Michael scoffs. “What, you’re gonna send me there like this for kidnapping your precious little mortal?” Lucifer’s jaw clenches – getting under his skin is so easy, he fears it’ll stop being fun altogether. Almost. “Come _ooon_ , no harm no foul, as they say! She’s _fine_ , isn’t she?”

“She is, which is the only reason you still have a tongue to speak with.” Ah, there he is. The King of Hell is in the house, master of all tortures. And people still think he’s changed. “But as much as it may surprise you, I'm not here because of that, Michael. I'm here because I need your help.”

Now _this one_ is certainly new.

“Come again?” Michael snickers, unable to help it even though it could obviously serve as his way out of this, exploiting his twin's naïvety. “ _My_ help? With what?”

That contained anger from before manifests once more in Lucifer’s gaze, but Michael senses it’s not directed at him this time.

“You see, while I was looking for the Detective, I thought she had been taken by a serial killer she was investigating,” Lucifer starts (which Michael knew, of course, and exploited as the perfect distraction). “Turns out that serial killer was none other than Miss Lopez’s _boyfriend_ , a lying, murdering human stain named _Pete_.”

Of this, instead, he was not aware. It’s not like he cared who the killer was, and he never included the tiny, surprisingly strong-armed forensic scientist in his schemes once he decided to target Espinoza instead. So much more guilt to harness in that one, so much more fear to exploit in a man who literally feels the fire of Hell at his heels, and the Devil breathing down his neck.

But now that Michael knows, a cold, uncomfortable suspicion slithers down his twisted spine. Something must have happened to one of Lucifer’s fragile toys, taking even him by surprise.

“Your Miss Lopez,” he inquires, staring straight into Lucifer’s eyes, “is she–”

“She’s alive,” Lucifer cuts him off, visibly recoiling as he contemplates the other option. “To be more specific, she _survived_.”

The anger and disdain on his face are evident, and for once, Michael doesn’t use them to taunt. Ella Lopez is many things (to be precise, possibly the most chatty human he has ever encountered), but her attempted murder displeases him for reasons he decides not to look at too closely. Maybe her obvious, almost worrying innocence? The respect he feels at her love for Father in a world that, overall, couldn’t care less?

Here’s the thing about Michael: a human dying as a consequence of his planning, as collateral damage, is not something he would lose sleep over; how long do they have left anyway, a few decades? Father made them so weak, then asked His angels to be gentle, but has _any_ of Michael’s siblings ever been that?

Lucifer grabs them by the throat, throws them into things, breaks people’s backs when it fancies him. Amenadiel has brought a murderer back from the dead, causing _more_ deaths. Uriel, that self-righteous fool, would have killed Chloe Decker with the press of a piano key, and Remiel was willing to cut a woman open without batting an eye. Ironically, the Angel of Death is the kindest of them all.

But humans killing _each other_? Now, isn’t that the most glaring of their faults. Such a short life to live, and they can’t even appreciate it: when you really look at it, history is nothing more than a long tale of mortals inventing cleverer and cleverer ways to off their fellow man. So stupid. _Humans are smart, my ass._

“Why are you telling me this?” he still asks Lucifer. After all, Lopez _did_ survive. “Human justice will take care of him, and if that is not enough... _you_ are the Poison, the Punisher, not me. If you want to have your way with the bastard, I'm sure your faithful little demon will be happy to carve him up for you.”

It’s a testament to how much Lucifer seems to need him, the fact that he completely ignores the reminder of what his original name means.

“Oh, I'm sure she would, and I must admit, the idea is quite tempting. But _Earthly_ punishment is not the issue here, Michael. Like I said, the core of the matter is Hell.” After downing the remaining content of the glass in one go, Lucifer turns and walks to his brand new piano, where he leaves it on a carefully placed coaster. _So fussy._ “The thing is, something Miss Lopez told him in the interrogation room stuck with me. _You’re going to burn in Hell._ Now... sadly, experience compels me to admit I wouldn’t be so sure, and it bothers me _immensely_.”

“Because he felt no guilt?” Michael asks, quickly putting two and two together.

Lucifer spreads his arms over the surface of the piano, drumming his fingers as he goes. “None whatsoever,” he says darkly, with venom in his voice – venom, yes, the venom _he_ is.

And a thought hits Michael all over again: how _ridiculous_ it is, to care for beings so fundamentally flawed. How could he not see it, when he let Chloe Decker play him like that? How could he risk stooping so low, _falling_ so quickly? A few days was all it took, but he knows better now. He’s not fallen, unlike the other angel in the room.

“Oh, brother.” He tilts his head, his lips taking the shape of an exaggerated pout. “Will you ever realize they’re not worth it? That all you’re doing is _desperately_ seeking the respect and acceptance of glorified _apes_? Then again, maybe it’s fitting. Only such treacherous creatures could ever love the Devil.”

Lucifer slams his palms flat on the piano, his face twisted into a snarl. _Ugh, so, so easy._

“This isn’t about me, Michael! It’s about making sure a _serial killer_ doesn’t wind up in the Silver City having supper with bloody Mother Theresa! You mean to tell me you would like that?”

He has a point. Michael _hates_ that he does. As the keeper of Heaven’s records, he sees it happening every now and then, and has learned to just... write the information down and ignore it, relegating the most controversial souls to a remote, forgotten part of the city. Out of sight, out of mind. But yes, it is an annoying loophole. Around the hundredth time he brought it up to Father and received no answer, he decided to let it go for his peace of mind.

“No, I would not,” he admits, watching Lucifer relax at his words. “But what is there for us to do, mm? You can’t create desire, I can’t create fear, and we sure as hell can’t create _guilt_ out of nowhere.”

“Not out of nowhere, no.” Something dangerous flashes in Lucifer’s eyes, sharp and cutting like the blade he used to disfigure Michael for good. His scar throbs at the memory, but he'll be damned if he lets the pain show. “But the fact that sweet little Pete doesn’t feel guilt about his murders doesn’t mean he feels no guilt _at all_. There is always something, brother. We just need to find it and amplify it enough to drag him down.”

Suddenly, it clicks. Of course. So very _devilish_ of him.

“You've done this before,” Michael voices his realization, half-way between disgusted and impressed. “You influenced a Heaven-bound soul to change the outcome.”

Lucifer’s wicked grin is confirmation enough. He straightens up from the piano and shrugs, adjusting a cufflink in that nonchalant, over-the-top way that is so very _him_ it made Michael gag to imitate.

“Just the one time, assuming him _saying_ he had no regrets was 100% true,” Lucifer says, before his expression shifts to sudden, gleeful curiosity. “Hold on, you mean to tell me you didn’t know? Did you forget to study that one chapter of my life during your deep dive into _How to Lucifer_? You disappoint me, Mikey.”

Michael tenses up, the chains around his body constricting his muscles.

“I have a life, too, you know?” he snaps, but it comes out whinier than he'd like. “It’s not like I could spend my entire existence spying on you drinking and fucking your way through this cesspool of a city.”

“Ah, yes, _a life_. Writing down names and dates like a dutiful little angel. _Fundamental_ work, I'm sure.”

“What the fuck is this about, Lucifer?” Michael is so done with this conversation, he almost wishes Lucifer would _actually_ throw him into Hell as not to see his smug, now permanently more handsome face. “If you’ve done it before, what do you need _me_ for?”

“To make sure.” Lucifer steps closer and crouches in front of Michael, putting himself at his eye-level. “I could tell he will be a tough nut to crack, but with _both_ our powers, I bet we can find his weakness. So, I am going to offer you a deal, Michael. Help me do this, and I'll set you free from these chains. I'll let you go on your merry way despite the bloody _nightmare_ you put me through, back to the Silver City or whichever other abandoned place you decide to go wallow in, I couldn’t care less. What do you say, mm? Will the almighty Archangel Michael strike an infamous _deal with the Devil?_ ”

Michael stares at his twin brother, a look of satisfaction and anticipation on his face. They both know he has no other option: bound in these chains, he can’t even spread his wings. Only the keeper of the key that opens the lock at his back can free him. But all things considered, it seems like such a small price to pay: putting the literal fear of God into a human, a _murderer_? In all honesty, it’s more an added bonus than anything else. Goes to show how soft the Devil has become, and Michael plans to take full advantage of it once freed.

“Yes, he will. We have a deal. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I can’t _shake on it_.”

“Of course.” Lucifer’s grin is the most punchable he has ever seen. Clapping his palms on his bent knees, he continues, “Lovely, then! Let’s not waste any more time. Chop chop, Quasimodo: the sooner I get rid of you, the better.”

“Call me that again, and I will headbutt you so hard you'll forget _all_ your names,” Michael grumbles as Lucifer grabs him by the chains and pulls him to his feet.

~

They land right outside the solitary confinement cell this _Pete_ is being held in. If Michael had to guess, he’d say Lucifer pulled some strings to make sure of it in order to have all the privacy required, and a few _more_ strings to have all guards magically disappear from this wing of the penitentiary. If he'd had more time before being found out, he might have tapped into Lucifer’s network of indebted people, too, though the idea of having to _listen_ to a whole line of petitioners horrifies him.

Leave it to Lucifer to entertain a court of lesser subjects; after all, that’s probably what ruling over a kingdom of demons does to an angel. Michael, on the other hand, would either rule in Heaven or nowhere at all.

“Let me _go_ ,” he snaps as his feet wobble, his body lacking balance thanks to the way he’s still chained. His already weaker arm is cramping up under the continuous pressure: massaging the tension out once this is over will be _a blast_.

“I was just making sure you wouldn’t fall, you ungrateful cretin.” Lucifer does as told and tugs at the lapels of his jacket, then tilts his head left and right. “Marvellous. Shall we?”

“You’re the one who can open the door, idiot.”

“It was a bloody rhetorical question, arsehole.”

They huff in unison, each irritated by the other. This teaming up nonsense is only a means to an end after all: for Lucifer to get the celestial justice he fears won’t be delivered, and for Michael to finally escape his brother’s clutches.

But oh, he would be lying if he were to deny the thrill of excitement coursing through his body as Lucifer steps closer to the door and tricks the lock into opening. There _is_ fear in this cell; in a more general sense, there is fear everywhere in this building. Fear of having wasted an entire life to crime, fear of making the same mistakes once released, fear of deserving exactly the punishment one is suffering through.

The air reeks of it, and Michael’s nature compels him to soak it all in. Each one has a different shape, smell and taste, and standing in the thick of it without being able to use his power on every single person present is like having to recognize an array of food items while being blindfolded. It’s a challenge.

With a bit of difficulty, Michael follows Lucifer inside the cell and slumps against the wall right next to the door, allowing his brother to close it behind them. The cell is small and bare, with only a tiny square window letting moonlight through. The thin beam of reflected white light illuminates a metal toilet in one corner and a bed in the other, where the guy who must be Pete, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, has just startled awake at the sound of their entrance.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting up with wide eyes, before his gaze starts shifting between them. “And there is _two_ of you now?”

“Unluckily for you, yes,” Lucifer replies, his tone low and controlled. For now. “My twin and I are here to have a little chat with you, _Petey_ , so I suggest you get comfortable. I have a feeling it will take a while.”

The frown on the human’s face intensifies, before the aura of danger they are projecting clearly becomes too obvious not to panic.

“Guard!” he calls out, though when he makes to stand up from the bed, one step from Lucifer is enough to put him in his place. “Guard, there’s someone here!”

“You can shout all you like, no one will come to help you. I made sure of it,” Lucifer informs him, confirming Michael’s assumptions. Considering how much mortals are consumed by their desires, it’s no wonder the Devil has a whole city in the palm of his hand. Forget Lux: the whole of LA is his den of sin. So much for the _City of Angels._

Pete’s posture deflates, his worry a palpable thing. Michael takes in his unkempt hair and beard, the overall slim build of his figure. A murderer of powerful women, that’s how Lucifer described him to him during the flight; a man targeting physically weaker individuals to feel stronger himself. The most vile form of killing, perpetrated on victims who have no clue as to what they did wrong, because they literally didn’t do _anything_ wrong aside from fitting a certain profile. A meaningless act, with no usefulness whatsoever.

Yes, Michael finds he will _definitely_ have fun.

“Is this about what I told you in the hallway?” the convict asks Lucifer, his eyes switching from dread to projected innocence in an almost shocking way, voice thin and small like that of a child who doesn’t understand why he’s being chastised. “’Cause I want you to know, I did mean that. Okay, maybe not the relationship advice part, ‘cause that’s just stuff I read somewhere, but it’s true that I wanted you to like me. Ells cares about you, and it was important for me to do everything right.”

Despite having no context for what he’s saying, Michael knows Lucifer enough to understand this is another case of his clueless twin brother having been played and manipulated by someone else, in this case a guy pretending to bond with him for the sake of his... relationship. The sight of Lucifer’s clenched fists and jaw would amuse him in any other circumstance, but this one human is already getting on his nerves with his good guy bullshit act.

“No, it’s not about what you told me in the hallway, Pete.” Lucifer’s anger is a barely contained thing at this point, a bomb ready to go off. “It’s about what you did to those women, and to her.”

“Oh.” The man has the audacity to look surprised. “Well, I told Ells the reason already. My mother, she–”

“You had a parent who didn’t love you, yes, welcome to the bloody club.” Oh no, is Lucifer going to start _whining_ now? “Spare me the sob story, and let’s cut to the chase.” Good, apparently not.

Still leaning against the wall near the door, Michael watches as Lucifer moves forward in a flash, suddenly crouching down in front of Pete. The Devil reaches out and harshly grabs the man’s chin to keep him in place, before asking his customary, “Tell me... what do you truly desire?”

Pete’s eyes lock on to Lucifer’s, the same way they would – and will – under Michael’s spell. He’s letting his brother take the lead for now, studying the man in search of weak spots to use, but he knows he'll soon be needed. He can see how a man so detached from basic, fundamental human emotions would require a bit of extra effort.

“I...” Pete starts, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of the water. “I want to kill again.”

With a frustrated, disgusted growl, Lucifer releases him both from the hold of his power and the grip of his hand, stepping backwards and away from the bed. That’s definitely not a desire that can be used to inspire guilt; quite the opposite, in fact. Or is it?

“Seems like it’s your turn, brother.” Lucifer turns to Michael. “Let’s see what this pitiful waste of air has to tell _you_ instead.”

The implication that Michael’s power is by definition nastier and more twisted, suited to deal with this kind of humans, is not lost on him. Where Lucifer is a beacon of light, a flame attracting all sorts of creatures to get warm, he is the darkness you learn to stay away from, because nothing good ever happens in the shadows.

Then again, it’s in the dark that the best plans are born, and in solitude. Maybe one day Lucifer will learn that all the attentions he receives are nothing but distractions, but for an angel with his ego, Michael wouldn’t bet on it.

He raises himself off the wall to approach Pete, but the weaker half of his body cries out in protest, making his legs shake. A brief look of pity crosses Lucifer’s features, but not brief enough to go unnoticed; Michael hates it with every fiber of his being. This is a brother who jumps at every opportunity to mock his condition, a brother who fucking _carved into his face_. He can save his pity, Michael doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Stay there.” Lucifer lifts his hand to stop him. “I'll bring him to you.”

“Uhm, just one question before we keep going: why is your brother chained, anyway?” Pete jumps in, his index finger raised as if addressing a teacher in a classroom.

“That, my dear Pete, is none of your bloody business,” Lucifer replies before grabbing the man by the collar of his jumpsuit and hauling him to his feet. He drags him across the small space and in front of Michael, then holds him there by the back of his neck. “Now, Michael, if you would be so kind...”

Michael wants to tell him he’s certainly not doing this out of _kindness_ , but he decides to let it slide. The sooner he cracks this nut open, the sooner he can leave and regroup. He had thought Lucifer would send his demon to the cave and was hoping to turn her against her master once and for all; maybe there is still a chance he can pull it off once this issue is resolved and he has upheld his end of the bargain.

“Tell me... what do you truly fear?”

Pete weakly squirms in Lucifer’s hold, but settles down the moment Michael’s power sinks its roots into his soul. Even a man like him must fear something: it’s such a natural emotion, the instinct to survive that keeps the most primitive of animals alive and away from what they know they should avoid. Predators. Hunters. Harsh, unfriendly environments or too open spaces.

Fear is simple, and oddly beautiful because of it. Michael is not sure it’s the domain he would have chosen, but it’s his now, and he has mastered it like a fine art. Lucifer basks and drowns in desire with the sloppiness of a drunk reveler, feasting on it as he does with booze, drugs and humans of all kinds; Michael, on the other hand, has sharpened the tool he has been given, has studied and perfected it.

When Pete gives his answer, he doesn’t even hesitate.

“I'm afraid she won’t come visit me.”

Michael blinks, breaking the spell. “Who?” he inquires, though the answer seems obvious and upsetting at the same time.

“Ella!” Pete confirms his suspicion. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You see, I used my one phone call to call her, but she didn’t pick up, so I left her a voicemail asking her to visit me here. I think that maybe we just need a bit more time, you know? For me to... to _feel_ something, now that I can’t do anything else about that. For her to get to know me and understand me. And look, it’s not like I can kill people here! So, isn’t the problem solved?”

Before Michael can even think of voicing his revulsion, Lucifer yanks Pete to the side and slams him into the side wall of the cell. Pete startles as his back comes in contact with it, but it’s nothing compared to what happens next.

“You will _never_ call her number again!” Lucifer thunders, keeping him stuck to the wall by the shoulders. Pete gasps at the sight of his red eyes, then whimpers when Lucifer’s angelic face, _Michael’s_ face, melts away in favor of his devilish one. “Or I swear to Dad, you’ll be sorry you ever crossed paths with me!”

Pete nods vigorously, his breaths harsh and labored, and slides to the floor the moment Lucifer releases him. The Devil keeps his burns visible: nothing new to Michael, mostly thanks to his spying, but there is always something quite _not_ right in seeing such familiar features disappear, celestial perfection tainted and consumed by demonic flames.

It saddens him and angers him in almost equal measure: how can this _monster_ presume to be better than him? How can Lucifer still feel so superior when he’s fallen so _low_ , so far away from Heaven?

But it takes a monster to deal with monsters: this, Michael understands. The effectiveness of this face, the reaction it elicits from people when they realize _something_ awaits them down the line; after all, he has used it for his own gain. And it seems like it’s time to do so again.

“Who–who are you?” Pete stammers from the floor, hugging his bent knees to his chest. “Who are you _really_?”

Lucifer opens his mouth to speak, but it’s Michael who replies, “Well, isn’t it obvious? He’s the Devil, Pete.”

With a grunt, he pushes himself off the wall. This time he manages to walk until he’s standing next to Lucifer, the both of them staring down at the human. He wishes he was more intimidating, with no chains stopping him from spreading his wings to show the other side of the coin: the Archangel to the Fallen, the Right Hand of God next to the wannabe Usurper of the Heavenly Throne, now less heavenly than ever. But it doesn’t matter: for the job he needs to do, his words will be more than enough.

“The Devil?” Pete repeats with a squeak, focusing on Michael to avoid looking at Lucifer’s red, hellish skin. “Ells is friends with the actual _Devil_?”

“Boggles the mind, I know.” He doesn’t miss the glare Lucifer gives him, just ignores it altogether. There is still no guilt in this human, not even at the prospect of a Hell he doesn’t understand the mechanics of, but that fear... it’s a thread, and it leads somewhere. “So tell me something: why are you afraid she won’t come visit you? Could it be because you tried to kill her? Just a suggestion, of course; please, feel free to elaborate on it.”

“Well, yeah, obviously it’s because of that!” Pete admits oh-so-casually, his slight tremors subsiding as he launches into arguing his own case. “But doesn’t she see that she forced my hand? I only told her to go get my research on the case, not to _snoop around_. That’s not okay when you are in a relationship. It’s a clear violation of trust and privacy,” he explains methodically, as if reciting a passage from a book. Which is probably what’s happening. “If she had minded her business, then it wouldn’t have come to that.”

Lucifer bristles, “How dare you–”

“But you let her into your home,” Michael cuts him off. Lucifer is clearly too emotionally invested (what’s new?) to follow the steps to be taken, but to him, they’re getting clearer and clearer. “You let your guard down, you thought you could fool her and ended up leading her straight to the evidence of your crime. You overestimated yourself, and now, you’re paying the price of that.”

As expected, Pete turns defensive; again, nothing new under the sun or... ceiling.

“No, no, no, you’re getting it all wrong! Everything was perfect, I did it _all_ perfectly! Hid the evidence out of sight! But she– _she_ unscrew that! It’s not my fault she did!”

 _Not my fault_. Once again, their line of questioning hits a wall: this man feels no guilt for his actions, or if he does, it’s buried under denial and a total, deep-rooted inability to distinguish right from wrong. And that’s when Michael sees it: it doesn’t _matter_ , letting him see what was right and what was wrong. What matters is Pete’s _own_ moral code, or lack thereof. _He_ will send himself to Hell, and to do so, he has to regret something _he_ considers a mistake. Not them.

“You couldn’t even manage to kill her,” Michael points out, and it’s wrong, it’s _sick_ , but so is the human in front of him. He can practically feel the flinch in Lucifer’s posture, his intake of breath at the words he had to force out of his mouth. “Such a small and helpless victim, and you couldn’t even go through with it. What kind of killer are you? You’re only capable of it when they’re restrained, is that it? How _pathetic_.”

Finally, realization dawns on the mortal's face, and the trap is set. He'll go to Hell out of guilt for _not_ killing someone. Isn’t that just wonderful?

“You’re right,” Pete croaks, cupping his own cheeks in shock as he stares into empty space. “I should have locked the syringes somewhere else, I should have... I...”

“Mm, yes, you clearly should have.” Despite the impediment of the chains, Michael crouches in front of him. “If you had, maybe you would have had time to flee. Maybe you would still be able to kill right now. Didn’t you say it’s what you _truly desire_?”

From fear to desire, full circle. Pete will forever feel responsible for denying himself what he yearns for, and the weight of it will do what it’s supposed to. Their work here is done.

Did Michael really have as much fun as he thought? He doesn’t feel particularly amused. Understanding the inner workings of the human mind is a pointless exercise, a futile pastime. They will always be God’s lesser children: toys, pawns, playthings. Only an angel who has forgotten where he comes from could consciously decide to mingle with them as an equal.

And yet... Michael almost did too, didn’t he? Almost let a pretty reflection trick him into giving it a shot. But it wasn’t him, in that reflection. Chloe Decker had already seen through his act at that point. Chloe Decker was pretending – a true Princess of Lies, the perfect queen to the King of All Evil. Yet another reward, a _miracle_ , for the least deserving of the Host.

If one good thing came from the scar on his face, it’s that from now on Michael willl be sure people are seeing _him_ when they look at him, instead of a “changed, different Lucifer” (an _improved_ one, if you ask him). After all, Lucifer has always been the favorite even _before_ Michael got his scar: he might as well embrace it, strive to rise higher _despite_ it. No more wearing _Lucifer’s_ face: this one is his own.

They leave Pete in his cell, curled into a ball on the floor and chanting “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right”. Lucifer’s angelic features return just as he’s about to close the door behind them, but only after telling the man one last thing.

“See you in Hell, Pete. You can be sure I will arrange a visit downstairs, _just_ to keep you company for a while. Aren’t you special?”

And with that, his Devil face disappears, and they’re back into the corridor they landed in. Truth be told, Michael hopes Lucifer will be in Hell _already_ when Pete eventually leaves the mortal plane for the infernal one, but for now, let him believe he will need to _visit_ , sure. So deluded, as always.

“Right, that went well.” Lucifer claps his hands together in a gesture of finality. “I suppose I'll have to check in on him every now and then, just to make sure he hasn’t talked himself out of it. At least now I know what buttons to push, thanks to what we did in there.”

“What _we_ did?” Michael sneers. “All you did was show your Devil face, big fucking deal. I did all the heavy lifting, and you know it. No wonder your _Detective_ was so surprised when I did _actual_ police work.”

“And here I thought we were _bonding_ , brother.” Lucifer puts a hand on his heart in mockery. “You wound me so.”

“Just get me the hell out of these chains, Lucifer.”

With a chuckle, Lucifer grabs him by the chains, spreads his wings and yanks him off the floor. They cross the physical barrier of the prison's ceiling and fly up into the night sky, to eventually land in a deserted parking lot scarcely illuminated by half-functioning street lamps. It’s here that, finally, Lucifer takes the key out of his pocket, walks around Michael and unlocks the chains binding him, demon metal dropping to the concrete with a loud clang.

Hissing in relief and pain both, Michael lifts his left arm to rub at the other, now even more aching than usual. He relaxes his right shoulder as much as he can after having his limbs pushed so tightly against his torso, then unfurls his crooked wings, the dark yin to Lucifer’s pristine white yang. But when he opens his mouth to say his hasty, snarky goodbye, he stops, noticing a deep frown creasing Lucifer’s features.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me that was too much for the Lord of Hell to handle,” he teases, though there is actual curiosity in his voice.

“Mm?” Lucifer seems to come back to the present all of a sudden, blinking. “No, it’s not that, I... what we–what _happened_ in there, it got me thinking... about Hell. About the souls already there, and the ones that might join them. Down there, for a moment, I thought... I thought he would go inside. And now I wonder if it’s my fault he didn’t. If I pushed too hard. And I find myself trying to picture what would have happened if he had.”

“Right, well, I have no idea what you’re talking about, so I suppose I'll just leave you to it.” Because seriously, was that supposed to make sense? Is Lucifer somehow considering changing the fate of damned souls _post-mortem_? Hell is made of loops. Loops reset, restart, and repeat. He'd have to go talk to Dad to get shit done, and good luck with that.

“That’s probably for the best.” Lucifer adjusts the lines of his sleeves and suit, then regards him for a moment. “See you soon then, brother. ‘Cause we _will_ see each other soon, won’t we?”

Michael appreciates the fact that he doesn’t believe otherwise. Finally, something smart coming out of that mouth.

“You can bet we will.”

Spreading his wings outwards on either side of his body, he prepares to take off, but one last thought stops him. Again, he decides not to dwell too much on the reason why.

“Your human friend, Miss Lopez... you should make sure she’s alright, in the days to come.”

He can practically _see_ a quip forming on the tip of Lucifer’s tongue ( _Why is that, Mikey-Mike, you getting soft?_ ), only to immediately die in favor of a more solemn, serious expression.

“I will, though you shouldn’t underestimate how strong she is. Chloe told me she beat you with a shoe when you showed up. For once, I probably should thank you for taking my place there, brother. She’s a fierce little thing, that one.”

Michael remembers that moment, though it didn’t exactly _hurt_ , of course. Remembers how easily Ella Lopez forgave “Lucifer” for disappearing without a word, immediately going in for a hug. Something small but painful, like what he imagines would be the sting of a needle, punctures his heart at yet another reminder: Lucifer is loved here, in so many ways. As a partner, a lover, a colleague, a friend, a brother. Michael only got a brief glimpse of it, but it was enough.

Enough to keep hating him. Enough to wish things would stop being so ridiculously _easy_ for him after everything he’s done. Enough, enough, _enough_.

“She definitely is,” is all he says in agreement, before finally taking to the air.

As he looks down at Lucifer one last time, the black stone on the Devil’s ring catches the artificial lights from around him – almost a wink, in a way, a little wave from the swirling bundle of immortality that has been trapped inside it for so many years of secrecy.

Finding the daughter of Lilith won’t be that hard, he figures. Lying to her wounded heart with an impossible promise will be even easier.

It was a nice truce while it lasted, but it’s over. They are no duo of avenging angels; never have been a duo to begin with.

The darkness of the night sky envelops him as he soars, leaving the Lightbringer behind. It reminds him, weirdly, of long, smooth black hair.


End file.
